Iron Winter

58

The smoke from the burning suburbs of Quinsai billowed across the water as the small boat bearing Avatak and Pyxeas pulled away from the jetty, rowed by a scrawny young Mongol. The harbour was crowded with rowboats and tenders, all trying to leave the city. Small sounds carried over the water, the calling of the crews, the lapping waves, the splash of oars and the snap of sails — and graver sounds from the land, the crump of a collapsing building, throatier roars that might be the firing of eruptors.

Further out, outside the harbour, the great ships floated on the still ocean water. Some were magnificent, serene, their decks crowded with masts like spindly forests — serene at least compared to the frantic scenes in the city. Avatak wondered which of them was waiting for him and Pyxeas.

Pyxeas himself was huddled over, wrapped in a coarse blanket against the unseasonal chill of this early summer day, and with one liver-spotted hand resting on the small trunk that contained his treasure, the records of his study with Bolghai in Daidu. He muttered to himself, barely audible. He seemed to take no notice of the scene around him, the burning city, the crowded harbour.

The Mongol boy was grinning at Avatak as he rowed. ‘He sick?’ He spoke in heavily accented Persian.

‘I don’t have much of that tongue.’

‘Yes-yes-yes. Nor me. Ha!’ His open mouth revealed gappy teeth, as if the rest had been knocked out. He looked no older than twenty. He was skinny for a Mongol, and the clothes he wore were filthy rags. ‘We get by, you and me.’

‘His name is Pyxeas. He’s a. .’ Scholar. Avatak tapped his head. ‘He thinks. Better than other people.’

The Mongol shrugged. ‘Not sick?’

‘He’s just old. If you’re old you’re sick all the time.’

‘Yes-yes-yes. My father, his father, his father, the same. Safe on boat. Listen. Bayan. My name — Bayan. You want anything on the boat, you come to me. Bayan. You remember, yes-yes-yes.’

Avatak studied him. Ever since they had come to Quinsai they had been surrounded by people trying to sell them something. ‘You’re a Mongol. What’s a Mongol doing at sea?’

Bayan grinned again. ‘Never liked horses. Horses kick me. I ran away to sea, made some money. Came back, lost money, back to sea. Make more money. Ha! My bad luck, the only Mongol in the world who doesn’t like horses. You need anything, ask for Bayan. Remember.’

‘I’ll remember.’

Pyxeas was stirring. He raised one hand to point, but his fingers would not fully extend.

Avatak switched to Northlander. ‘Scholar? What is it?’

‘Our ship.’

The craft was not the largest, but big enough, Avatak thought, as Bayan rowed the length of its hull — big enough to have dwarfed the fleets that sailed from ports like Hantilios into the puddle of the Middle Sea, even most of the craft that sailed from Northland’s Wall harbours to take on the Western Ocean. And, of course, it would have utterly overshadowed the little fishing boats of Avatak’s people.

Bayan’s boat was only one of a dozen that crowded around the great ship now, bearing passengers, bales of goods, even animals. The crew worked from the top deck and leaned out of open hatchways, hauling up stuff with ropes and pulleys, or carrying it on their backs up ladders. The ship’s hull was blackened by fire and much patched; you could see the joins where whole sections had been replaced, fresh planking hammered home and sealed with greyish paste. Close to, the wooden flank smelled of deep-ingrained brine. It was not a pretty ship, like the yachts that had sailed the tame lakes of Daidu for the pleasure of the Khan’s courtiers. But Avatak felt reassured at its very roughness. This was a working vessel that had seen tough times before, and survived them; there was every chance, then, that it would survive a little longer, and its passengers along with it.

Bayan brought them to a ladder, dangling in the water. Their few goods were easily transferred by Bayan and a couple of sailors. Avatak would be able to clamber up the ladder easily, but it was soon evident that Pyxeas would not. There was a brief, farcical scene as the stubborn old man tried anyhow, but his gnarled hands would not grip the rope rungs, his booted feet slipped, and he could not raise his weight — he could barely stand, let alone climb. So Bayan and Avatak tried to help him, the Mongol pulling his arms from above, Avatak pushing from below. Other crew gathered on the deck above, offering ribald advice in a dozen tongues.

Eventually a sterner, older man came to investigate. The captain, Avatak supposed. He glanced down at the scene in the boat, and looked out at Quinsai, and Avatak saw the burning city reflected in his black eyes. Bearded, wearing a turban and a crisp white gown, he had the look of an Arab — this was an Arab-owned ship, though of Cathay manufacture. He snapped a quick order to Bayan, and turned away.

Bayan shrugged. ‘Al-Quds is the captain and he wants to be gone. Get on with it, he says. Poor Bayan! Now then, master-’

Without ceremony he caught Pyxeas by the legs and lifted him over his shoulder. Pyxeas struggled feebly, but seemed too weak to protest. Thus laden, Bayan made his way up the rope ladder. Avatak was impressed by his skill, pushing one-handed from one rung to the next so that with every step up he had to balance without a handhold, and managing Pyxeas’ not inconsiderable weight as if he were no more than a sack of feathers.

Once on deck, Bayan set Pyxeas upright. The scholar seemed bewildered, disoriented. Bayan headed for their cabin, while a couple of the crew carried their trunk and baggage. Avatak led Pyxeas gently by the hand across the rocking deck.

From up here, the ship looked even more substantial than from the ocean. Its four masts were laden with sails of matted bamboo, furled for now, and two more great masts lay like tree trunks, lashed to the deck. There were structures on the deck like little wooden houses, and hatches were thrown open to show the interior below, great holds where goods were being stored, sacks and jars and barrels. From some of the holds came the sounds of animals — lowing, bleating, clucking — and a stench of straw and dung. Despite the noise and the chaos Avatak could see the crew were working methodically, moving goods around the holds to balance the weight on either side of the ship. He wondered how many crew there were — hundreds perhaps. There were many passengers too, like themselves, Cathay, Mongols, Arabs, most of them presumably traders, hurrying across the deck and in and out of open doorways.

‘Watertight holds,’ Pyxeas murmured unexpectedly.

‘What was that, scholar?’

‘Watertight holds. A feature of these great vessels. See? Hole one of them and it will flood but the ship won’t sink. The shipwrights of the west have got a lot to learn.’ But then his eyes clouded, a look of confusion returned to his gaunt face, and he retreated inside himself.

They had to clamber down a short stair, Pyxeas managed with difficulty, to the small cabin that had been allotted them. There were two narrow bunks, one table, a few shelves with rails to stop their possessions falling off when the ship rolled, and a tiny glassless window through which a stiff breeze pushed, bearing a scent of smoke from the fires on land. Bayan and the other crew crowded around, their hands held out. Avatak had a pouch of coins at his waist; he doled out one to each man. He had spread his wealth around a number of pouches and satchels and pockets, including a few of Uzzia’s gems, most of which were still sewn into the quilted coat, which he wore. He hoped that these layers of deception would distract thieving fingers enough to enable them to reach Carthage with some of their wealth intact.

Now the turbaned captain pushed into the cabin, carrying a slate. His nose was strong, his face masked by a grey-flecked beard, but his large, dark eyes were oddly gentle as he inspected Pyxeas. ‘You are the scholar? And his man.’ His Northlander was passable.

Pyxeas stood and drew himself to his full height. ‘I am he, Pyxeas,’ he said in rich Northlander, and repeated the words in Persian. ‘The boy is called Avatak.’

The captain made tick marks on his slate. ‘Good. You may call me al-Quds. It is not my name, which nobody in Cathay can pronounce, but it’s the name of the holy city where I was born, and it’ll do.’

‘I will need quiet,’ Pyxeas said sternly. ‘I have work to do — vital work. I must not be disturbed. You cannot comprehend the importance.’

‘Can I not?’

Pyxeas glanced around at the cabin, the tiny table. ‘I suppose this must suffice.’ He sat uncertainly on one of the bunks.

The Arab raised his eyebrows at Avatak.

Avatak shrugged. ‘He’s a scholar.’

‘Well, for the next months, he’s to be a scholar and a sailor.’ He eyed Avatak. ‘What are you, a Mongol? Not a Northlander.’

‘Not a Mongol. From very far west.’

‘Do you know the world? Perhaps you can explain it to your scholar friend. We are making for Carthage. To do that we must sail south and west and across three oceans, of Cathay, of Indh, of the Arabs. If we survive all that we will pass through the Gulf of Africa, and then through the Canal of Hasdrubal, if it is still open, if it hasn’t been clogged up by war or piracy, to the Middle Sea. And on the way I’ll do my very best to keep the noise down,’ he said drily.

‘I will explain it to the scholar. He has family in Carthage; he is eager to return to them.’

‘And I have paymasters, and I’m eager to return to them. You’re among the last to board. What of the city?’

‘The siege will be over soon, I think.’ Since the spring Quinsai had been assailed by rough armies of Mongol factions, Cathay dissidents and steppe nomads. ‘Every night it burns. Quinsai has always burned. Now they are failing to douse the fires before they spread.’

‘Then it will all be up soon.’

Avatak felt motivated to try to explain, to this evidently thoughtful, competent man, the man who now held Avatak’s own life in his hands, and Pyxeas’. ‘It is the longwinter. People fleeing the weather, on the move. My master says we must expect war this year. Across the whole world, wherever we go.’

‘That’s a cheerful thought. Let’s hope we have nothing but the sea to contend with.’ He nodded to Pyxeas and withdrew, closing the door.

Pyxeas was already picking at the clasps of his trunk. ‘Help me with this thing, would you? I must make a start, I must.’